


(you can always) get someone to do your thinking for you

by dromaeolophus



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Concussions, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Open Relationships, Praise Kink, Sharing a Bed, Sports injuries, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-16 08:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dromaeolophus/pseuds/dromaeolophus
Summary: "Who's gonna watch Willy?" Backy asks, when they get off the bus at the hotel."Fuck off, I don't need a babysitter," Tom says, but there's no bite to it, and he immediately feels bad because no one talks to Backy like that."I'll do it," Holts offers.





	(you can always) get someone to do your thinking for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is fiction, and please for the love of god if you know anyone in the Washington Capitals organization, never ever speak of this to them, thank you.
> 
> Set after that Vegas game on Dec. 4, 2018. You know the one. 
> 
> Title is a quote from Gordie Howe.

His whole head is ringing.

It echoes and shakes through his ears and cheeks and jaw and teeth, pealing.

The ice is less than a foot from his face, but he can't see it right - his vision is flashing and spotting and when he tries to focus on the gouges left by skates, they double up.

He closes his eyes. He doesn't know where his helmet is.

“Willy.”

His head tilts to the side, a useless attempt to clear out his ears.

“Willy, you're okay. Tom,” and there's a slight weight on his back, too broad to be a regular glove. Catching mitt. Holts.

Tom tries to breathe. His ribs feel like they're hitched inwards, hooked together tight, and there’s no room left for his lungs to expand. He manages to make a sound, he thinks, but he’s not even. He doesn’t know. He curls his hands up tight in his gloves.

“Tom,” Holts says again, and presses down a little harder, so Tom can register it through his pads, enough for it to ground him. A catch releases in his chest. He inhales.

“I’m okay,” Tom finally says, although he’s not sure it’s true. His voice sounds wrong.

A trainer appears and helps him up onto his knees. Holts skates back a little, though Tom can’t tell how far, or in what direction - his periphery isn’t working quite right. He feels the absence, somehow. The emptiness of the rink seems vast in a way that it hasn’t since he was a kid, and the pressure of over fifteen thousand people spanning above him is like a physical weight, keeping him pinned down.

He's surrounded by linesmen and refs, and he’s trying to listen to his trainer but he keeps getting lost in the officials’ stripes. Closing his eyes again, he leans back a little on his heels, breathes.

He gets to his skates, one leg at a time, his vision hazing. Stevie swoops in and takes some of Tom’s weight, and Tom finds himself leaning on him more than he wants to. Stevie says something - Tom sees his mouth move, hears his voice, but can’t he register the words.

Carly shows up out of nowhere and takes Tom's other side, so he’s just being skated gently off the ice by some of his boys. Which is nice. He appreciates it.

He has to be helped down the tunnel.

His head is still ringing, but even through it he can hear the crowd.

They’re booing.

 

-

 

Medical doesn’t let him on the bike to try to prove he can go back out - he doesn’t pass the first part of the concussion test. They won’t even let him watch the rest of the game on a monitor. He's done.  
  
They lose the game.

 

-

 

“Who's gonna watch Willy?” Backy asks, when they get off the bus at the hotel.

“Fuck off, I don't need a babysitter,” Tom says, but there's no bite to it, and he immediately feels bad because no one talks to Backy like that.

Backy _looks_  at him, and Carly joins in a moment later so Tom is just getting stared down by his two A’s. He wilts a little.

“You passed out on Burkie's shoulder on the drive here,” Carly says, pointedly.

Ovi pops up behind Carly and Backy.

“You do need babysitter,” Ovi opines, infuriatingly cheerful, and that's it, the captain has spoken, and it's not like they wouldn't have all listened to Backy in the end anyway.

“I'll do it,” Holts offers, who had been quietly idling next to the group of them, dicking around on his phone.

"Perfect,” Carly says, clapping Holts on the shoulder. “You know the kids would’ve started playing rock, paper, scissors over it.”

V’s head comes up from where he and the other young guys are clustered, like he senses the slight. He squints at them. Carly waves at him, and that’s enough to get V smiling again.  
  
“You’re all such dads,” Tom says, only slightly annoyed.

“Yep,” Carly agrees, smiling placidly.

And apparently that's that. He and Backy head for the elevator, talking quietly with their heads down. Ovi crosses the lobby with his arms open wide and slings them around V and Bows, because they lost and a guy got hurt and rookies are sensitive.

Ovi's the best at cheering everybody up. Tom could use some of that, right now, maybe. Maybe. He might be past it.

Tom watches them for a minute, drifting.

“Your room or mine?” Holts asks, and Tom startles.

He doesn’t answer right away - he's distracted by the fact that he feels a little like he’s tilting. Or like the floor is tilting? It's hard to tell with the carpet. They’re in a nice hotel, but even nice hotels have ugly as fuck carpets, they're just quieter. He watches the pattern under his feet.

“Right,” Holts says, and Tom nearly jumps, “yours then.”

Shit, Tom hadn’t even noticed that he’d started fading out again.

Holts wraps a gentle hand around Tom’s upper arm, and leads him to the elevators. Tom lets himself be guided. It’s kind of nice. Holts is shorter than him, but not by a whole lot, and he has good, solid hands. It’s not something Tom thinks about, much. He tries not to.

He's can't focus right now. He can't focus, and he's thinking about Holts’ hands.

He’s herded into the elevator - the rapid ascent sends a new jolt of pain through his head - and then back out, down the long hallway with a thousand identical doors to what is apparently his room, where he finds himself being leaned gently against the wall.

“Key card?”

Oh, right, that's a thing. Tom fumbles his wallet out of his pocket, and somehow extracts the key without dropping anything.

He holds it out to Holts, disproportionately proud.

Holts gives him a crooked smile, the kind where he lifts his chin and tilts his head just slightly. “Nice work, Whip.” It's a quiet tease, which Tom appreciates. Makes it feel like things are kind of normal.

The door opens and Holts ushers him inside, where Tom just stands, useless. Holts doesn't turn on the lights, so the glow of the strip outside comes through the window unimpeded. Tom looks at it, reflected back through Holts’ eyes.

“Okay, I'm gonna go grab some shit from my room. Go lie down, eh?”

“Y'got it,” Tom says. He gives a thumbs up. He’s a disaster.

Holts smiles and ducks out into the hall.

“Fuck me,” Tom breathes, as soon as the door clicks shut.

He goes and makes himself brush his teeth, keeping himself braced against the counter. He had showered at the arena - under supervision, which hadn't been a nightmare at all - so once his mouth feels mostly clean he just strips down to his underwear and gingerly climbs into bed.

His left shoulder is bruised up, and his ribs a bit, but he's used to that. It's fine.

It's not until he's cocooned himself, bundling up with maybe more of the sheets than is strictly necessary, that it occurs to him that he and Holts are going to be sleeping in the same bed. They could've switched with a pair of rookies and had a double. It's not like Holts can't make sure he doesn't hit his head again from another bed.

Shit, well. He's lying down and doesn't want to move (maybe can’t move), and they're both adults who can be fucking chill - Holts’ chill is like, legendary anyway - and if anything gets weird then hey, Tom has a traumatic brain injury to blame it on.

So it's cool.

He shuts off that part of his head.

He closes his eyes, and instead thinks about how long Kuzy was out. Thinks about how Osh is _still_ out. Thinks about having missed so many games in the season already.

Tom doesn't often feel sorry for himself, but this time, he allows it. Sinks into it. Fades into discomfort, physical and mental and emotional. Feels set adrift, and is gone.

He snaps out of a doze at the sound of the room door clicking open. Holts is back, with his stuff in tow. He stacks everything by the chair in the corner of the room.

Tom gazes at the pile through half-closed eyes.

Holts turns on the small lamp on the corner desk. It's dim, dim light, but still enough to make Tom recoil.

“Sorry,” Holts says, because of course he noticed. Goalie superpowers.

“S’okay,” Tom says, shielding his face with a hand until his eyes adjust.

“How're you feeling?” Holts asks, as he starts stripping out of his suit. Jacket off, shoes. Tie. Vest. Tiny shirt buttons. Tom closes his eyes.

“Pretty shitty,” he says, after awhile.

“Yeah,” is all Holts says. Tom looks at him, then - he's kind of glower-y, eyebrows furrowed. He's down to just his boxer briefs, and holding a t-shirt in his hands.

There's so much bare skin, and Tom sees more than that all the time in the locker room, but it's not the same, not even close. He should turn away, find some sort of self-preservation. He doesn't.

“It is what it is, Holts,” he says. He's tired and hurt and doesn't have any fight left in him, not tonight. Holts’ thighs are a good distraction.

A lot of goalies are skinny fuckers. They put on their pads and you have no idea, and then you see ‘em later and it turns out Tom could probably bench some of them. Copper’s like that - long and lanky, sometimes looks like he’s more joints than he is muscles.

Holts, though.

He's not built like Tom, but he's a lean kind of strong, heavy. Good arms. An amazing ass and thick thighs, the kind Tom dreams about sometimes.

Man, he’s. He's feeling too shitty to be going down that road.

He watches as Holts pulls on his shirt, and while his head is hidden by fabric Tom decides it’s a good time to pretend he's not a creep.

He picks up his phone, wakes it up, glances at it, and immediately squeezes his eyes shut against the light.

“Can you text Taylor for me?” Tom asks. He unlocks the phone and holds it out in Holts’ general direction.

“Sure,” Holts says, and takes it.

Tom drops his arm onto the bed, the weight of holding it up suddenly unbearable. His arms are way too heavy. Why does he have so many muscles? If he were skinnier maybe he could actually do stuff. What’s the point of being strong if he can still get knocked off his feet, anyway? What's the point if he can't do what he was drafted to do?

He might be a little more fucked up than he thought.

His face is half-mashed into a pillow. The fabric is starting to get too warm, but doesn't think he can lift himself up to flip it around.

“I told her that I’m keeping an eye on you, and that you’re hurting but will be fine,” Holts tells him, after a minute. His voice is calm, and quiet, and even. Soothing.

“She say anything?” Tom ask. His words are muffled into the pillow but Holts manages to figure it out anyway.

“She told me to take good care of you.” Tom cracks open an eye to look at him - he seems gently amused. The phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with the notification and casting blue over the planes of Holts’ face. Tom's gaze catches on the cut of his cheekbone, the sharp arch of his brow. “And she says, ‘Remember your list.’ List is capitalized, for whatever it's worth.”

Tom's whole body freezes up. He shifts his focus to stare past Holts, to the curtains.

“Hm,” Tom manages, after too long a silence, because he has to make some kind of acknowledgement before anything gets weird. Weirder. He closes his eye again, and makes a conscious effort to untense. The whole body jolt had sent a lance of pain through his head.

Holts is a kind and good dude, and lets the awkward moment go. He just asks, “Is the light still bothering you?”

Tom makes a vague affirmative noise.

He hears some rustling - Holts going through his bag, he guesses - and then the light clicks off.

“Hey, Willy. Tommy,” Holts says, and he's really close. “Here.”

Tom opens his eyes. Looks at what he's being offered. He speaks without thinking.

“Dude, are you giving me a blindfold?”

Holts laughs. “It's a sleep mask, you idiot. To help with the light.”

Tom flushes. He clears his throat. “Right,” he says, and takes it.

Holts is too smart and too fucking wordly, or whatever, to not know where Tom's mind was for that, but he's also a generous kind of guy and probably won't say anything.

He puts the mask on. It helps.

Holts settling into bed next to him should be a distraction, but he's so tired that it just helps, too. He drifts off, calmer than he would have thought.

 

-

 

He wakes up to piss, take more painkillers, and chug a bottle of water. He checks his phone, functioning on autopilot. Holts had plugged it in for him, and he thumbs over the cord port. He's being weird.

There’s a shit ton of texts checking in with him that he'll try to go through tomorrow, if his head lets him. The most recent is a message from Burkie - a flood of different sad emojis, and a link to a tweet.

He shouldn’t be on Twitter. He shouldn’t be looking at his phone at all. Even with the screen brightness at its lowest setting, the light is killing him. Letters swim a little. He opens the link anyway.

It’s a gif.

It's Reaves’ first hit on him, the one where Tom got right back up. It’s Reaves laughing in his face while Tom's down on the ice, upended and wrong-footed.

He’s not sure how to feel about it. He retweets it, though. He can have a sense of humor about shit.

 

-

 

Nausea gets him up in the morning, hours before Holts’ alarm. He scrambles out of bed, makes it to the bathroom just in time, and even after his stomach is empty it still feels like it's roiling. He drapes himself over the toilet basin, his bare knees grinding into the cold tile. Rests his forehead against his arm in a brief moment of respite before he's heaving again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, after it passes, and spits bile into the toilet. He flushes it and then leans back, settles against the wall, and puts his head in his hands.

“Hey Willy,” Holts says from the doorway.

“I wake you up? Sorry, man,” Tom says. His throat feels raw.

“S'fine. Not any worse than being a parent.”

 _Oh, fucking thanks_ , Tom thinks.

“You need anything?”

“No, just,” Tom says, and stops. He rubs his hands up the back of his head, pressing into his scalp. His forehead throbs. “Yeah, actually. Water, please?”

“Sure kid,” Holts says, and disappears.

“Don't 'kid’ me, you're only five years older,” Tom says, mostly to his knees.

“Half a decade,” Holts says, reappearing with a bottle of water, cap already twisted off. “Room temperature, easier on your stomach.”

Tom looks at the offered bottle for a long moment, at Holts’ hand, at his tattoos, at his dumb bracelets that he apparently sleeps in, before he remembers to take it. His fingers shake when he reaches out. He's doing great.

“Thanks Holts,” he says.

The other man gazes down at him. “Drink your water, Tommy.” He presses a warm palm to Tom's bare shoulder, thumbs over his clavicle, and is gone.

Tom isn't gonna think about that. So he just takes small sips of his water, and tries. Not to.

He focuses on slowly drinking, and stops halfway through the bottle, wary of how his stomach still feels like it's pitching itself around.

With a groan, Tom levers himself to his feet, braces himself with both hands on the sink counter once he’s upright. He realizes Holts has been watching him from his perch on the bed.

“Creep,” Tom mutters.

“I take my job seriously,” Holts tells him, and then grins, which is an unfair distraction. Tom is always amazed at how his face transforms when he smiles, sharp brows smoothing out and kind lines creasing into existence at the corners of his eyes.

“Sure, sure,” Tom says, looks away. He brushes his teeth with a hand that's still not quite steady, splashes water on his face, and then brushes his teeth again.

He edges back into the room, tired and awkward and suddenly freezing. Holts isn’t watching him outright anymore, but he does glance up from his tablet as Tom edges around the bottom of the bed.

“Okay?” Holts asks.

Tom shrugs. “Good enough,” he says, and fights down shivers.

He’s trying to figure out the best way to smoothly get back into bed when both their phones light up.

They check them at the same time; new message in the team group chat, which is weird because it's four in the fucking morning and everyone should still be asleep.

But Tom had forgotten that Osh is a few hours ahead back home, and the text is a screenshot of Tom's retweet of the Reaves gif - which Tom didn't remember doing until right this second - and then a message of _RIGHT SIDE!!!!!_ and a couple cry-laughing emojis.

Tom sets his phone down, head already a little extra achy from looking at the screen. Osh is such a bro, Tom loves him, and feels a little vindicated.

Which lasts all of two seconds, because Holts does not, in fact, think it's funny. His eyebrows draw in, he frowns hard, and he says, “Damn it Tom, you're smarter than this.”

He drops his phone, picks up Tom's, grabs Tom’s hand to fingerprint unlock it, opens Twitter, and navigates to Tom's profile. He stares for a second, before tapping the screen a little harder than necessary to undo the retweet. The phone gets tossed onto the bed.

Holts belatedly seems to realize that he's still got a grip on Tom's hand, his thumb pressed to Tom's palm and the rest of his fingers wrapped firm around to the tendons on the back. He lets go, and Tom manages to not say anything. He stretches out his hand instead. Cracks his knuckles.

“Jesus Tom, do I have to confiscate your phone?” Holts asks, though it sounds mostly rhetorical.

Tom wants to say no, because fuck right off, he’s an adult and he’s dealt with this shit for years now, and he’s still here and he got a great contract and his boys love him and that’s all that matters.

But he says, “Yeah, probably.”

Which is more honesty than he wanted.

Holts sighs. He looks at Tom, who does his best to look back. He gets distracted by the angle of Holts’ nose, the beard starting to creep down his neck because he hasn't shaved in a couple days, the fall of his limp hair. Tom’s eyes drift back to meet Holts’, still staring at him. His eyes are always so intense. Tom feels trapped.

“Okay,” Holts says. He scratches along his beard for a second, thoughtful. “It's still early enough that we can sleep for another couple of hours. You wanna try?”

Thank God.

“Yeah,” Tom says. Lets the exhaustion settle into his voice, lets it weigh down his limbs and pull him to the bed. He collapses onto his side of the mattress.

“Okay,” Holts says again. He picks up their phones, turns Tom's off, sets them both on his bedside table. “You gotta get under the blankets, Whip.”

Tom manages to maneuver himself into a position where he can draw the blankets up to his chest. He's still too cold.

“Will you get in bed, I'm freezing,” Tom says, starting to slur a little in exhaustion. He gets the sleep mask back on and refuses to feel dumb about it.

Holts might laugh at him, he's not sure, but it doesn't really matter because he's climbing in under the blankets and he's like a furnace.

“Closer,” Tom mumbles. “Please,” he adds, remembering his manners, because he's a nice Canadian boy.

“Sure,” Holts says. He settles into the middle of the bed, and presses his back up flush to Tom's, warm even through Holts’ shirt.

Tom melts into it and is asleep in less than a minute.

 

-

 

Tom’s nauseated again when they have to get up for real.

He shoves off the sleep mask. Holts is already up.

Tom stays curled around his stomach in bed, glaring at the bedside table through squinted eyes. He can't play hockey and he might have to go home and he feels like he’s gonna puke and everything is fucking bullshit.

Holts bustles around the room while Tom sulks.

“C'mon, Whip,” Holts says, after Tom has spent an indeterminable time not moving. “I know you're up. Breakfast, then check in with medical to see what they want to do with you.”

Tom must go a little green at the mention of food, because Holts grimaces and corrects himself. “An attempt at breakfast. We'll try to find you something.”

Tom grumbles indistinctly, but gets out of bed anyway, makes himself go to the bathroom. He’s steadier on his feet today.

When he comes back out, he finds that Holts has picked up his suit from last night and packed it, along with the rest of his shit, though the suitcase lays open for Tom to grab clothes for the day.

“You're a god,” Tom tells him, sincerely. Which all of the team already know, but whatever.

“Mhm,” Holts agrees, and disappears into the bathroom.

Holts manages to corral Tom in good time and get him down to breakfast, where Tom valiantly does not hurl at the scent of percolating coffee.

After gazing forlornly at the hot food and holding a hand over his traitor of a stomach, Tom collects some plain yogurt and goes to sit by himself in a corner, away from the miasma of breakfast smells.

He pokes his spoon around in the yogurt, moves it around some before finally starting to eat in small, sullen mouthfuls, waiting between each to be sure they're not gonna come back up.

Everything sucks.

A plate full of really fucking good-looking omelette gets dropped onto the table across from him, and Tom glares at it balefully. When Devo drops into the chair behind it though, Tom manages a small, tight smile for him.

“Hey Willy,” Devo says. “How you doing?”

“Gotta visit with medical,” Tom mutters. He's not optimistic about it. He absolutely can't play, he knows that, but he doesn't want to go home, doesn't want to miss his boys.

“You already seem a little better than last night,” Devo says around a mouthful of egg.

Tom thinks about it. He's not losing track of conversation, spacing out, drifting off. Light hurts a little less. He's doing a better job of not staring at Holts, which is maybe the biggest accomplishment.

He perks up a little. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“Awesome.” Devo gives him a big gap-toothed smile.

Tom even manages to branch out from yogurt after that - he eats some toast and keeps it down. He’s on a goddamned roll.

 

-

 

Tom comes out of meeting with a doctor and one of the trainers to find Burkie hovering, near vibrating with energy.

“Are you getting sent home?” he asks, as soon as Tom notices him.

“No,” Tom says. He's not getting sent home.

He doesn't feel like he's going to be able to play soon, so he doesn't know who anyone is kidding, letting him stay. Maybe they just don't want to put him on a plane. Maybe they know he'll just do something dumb if left unattended. Fuck, he already has, hasn't he, so there’s a valid point to the thought.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't really care, in the end. He's just so grateful that he doesn't have to leave.

Burkie whoops, and nearly swings his arms around Tom's neck before he remembers himself. He offers a sheepish hug instead, which Tom gladly accepts.

“I'm day-to-day upper body injury,” Tom adds, because of course he is.

Burkie just nods, and gently drags Tom down the hall by the arm, cheering, “Bus time, bus time!”

When they get to the hotel doors, Tom's shit is waiting for him. He stops in front of it, nonplussed. He's not sure if the hotel brought everything down or if Holts did it.

While Tom is frozen in confusion, Ovi appears out of nowhere, scoops up Tom's bags, and cheerily carries them out to the bus, which certainly doesn't make Tom feel at all useless.

“Hey,” Tom says, a token protest.

Ovi just grins at him over his shoulder.

Like, okay, fine, obviously if any of the other guys were in his shoes, he'd be overprotective as hell and wouldn't let them do anything either. But it's not the same. Or something.

He follows Ovi outside, fumbling on his sunglasses. He stands with his arms crossed and might be brooding as he watches his shit get stowed under the bus, so he jumps when a voice comes from right behind him, asking, “Do you want to be left alone to rest?”

Tom turns around, slow and deliberate - to hide how startled he is, but also because he thinks if he spins, his balance will go to hell and he'll actually fall over.

It's Backy, watching Tom with pale, too-sharp eyes.

It's a pointed question. It carries heavy overtones of, 'your answer had better be yes, or else.’ Backy's really good at putting on that tone.

“No,” Tom says, and when Backy's lips thin and his eyes narrow and go icy, Tom panics. “I think, uh, I'll stick with Holts?” He doesn't mean for it to be a question.

“Sure babe,” Holts says, as he happens to pass by.

Tom flushes, and curses himself, because Holts calls everyone babe, it's not fucking new or special or anything. It’s not something what would usually have gotten to him. He's injured and compromised and weak.

Backy is still looking at him, now with raised eyebrows. “Alright,” he says, a little too knowing.

“Shut up Backstrom,” Tom mutters. Backy laughs at him.

“C'mon Willy,” Holts says, having popped back up, and herds Tom onto the bus. Tom flips Backy off as he goes.

Holts keeps herding Tom down the aisle once they're on board, past some of the boys already camped out, half draped over seats.

“Let's keep you away from the rabble,” he says after they get about halfway down. Holts has to pitch his voice a little loud to be heard over the music one of the guys has playing.

“Rabble my ass, Beast!” Boydie yells from the front of the bus.

“You're not helping your case, Boyd,” Holts tells him.

Boyd just laughs and ducks back down to huddle with Dowder and Siegs.

Holts nudges Tom towards the back of the bus. He goes.

It's darker in the back, a little cooler, and Tom feels himself untense slightly, just a bit of strain dropping from his shoulders. He didn't even realize he was wound up.

The rookies normally sit in the back, he realizes, and they must have switched to the front to give him space.

Jesus. He loves his boys.

He climbs into a window seat - between the tinted window and his sunglasses, the light is tolerable.

“You want me to sit with you?” Holts asks.

“Yeah - protect me for the rabble, Holtby,” Tom says, almost completely, entirely joking.

“I will leave you with O's Russian techno, so help me God,” Holts says, but he sits next to Tom anyway.

Tom grins into a yawn so big it cracks his jaw.

Holts settles in, stows his bags away, and magics up water and Gatorade from somewhere to stick into Tom's seat pockets. Thoughtful asshole.

“Thanks,” Tom says.

“No problem, Willy.”

Holts takes a long draw from his coffee mug, and Tom loses himself for a second in watching the line of Holts’ neck. He had shaved that morning, and the edge of his beard is sharp.

Tom blinks, looks away out the window. “You starting tomorrow?” he asks the glass.

“Nah, it's Cops. Reirden wants me for Columbus.”

Tom hums an acknowledgement.  
  
He rests his head against the window, closes his eyes, and zones out as everyone floods into their seats and they get moving.

Tom was worried that he would end up motion sick once they got onto the highway, was ready to have to launch himself over Holts to get to the bathroom, but the movement and the quiet rumble of the bus is soothing.

When Holts asks if Tom wants him to play his dumb folk music on speaker instead of using headphones, Tom says yes, and feels strangely at peace.

He ends up falling asleep on Holts' shoulder, which should feel about the same as falling asleep on Burkie, but it absolutely doesn't.

 

 -

 

They get to Glendale, and some shit has happened on the internet. Go fucking figure.

Tom was asleep for most of the drive, and Holts has his phone anyway, so he doesn’t know anything until they unload and get into the hotel, where Carly gathers some of them into a huddle to loudly complain.

 “'A lion in the jungle,’” Carly scoffs. “What a god-damned tool. Lions don't even live in the jungle.”

 “How you know that?” asks Kuzy, interjecting before Carly can get a good head of steam going.

“That's not important,” Carly says.

“Is from kids’ books,” Kuzy half-whispers, conspiratorial, and then cackles when Carly gives him a dirty look.

Tom starts laughing, because you can't not when Kuzy is, and apparently that was Kuzy's plan all along because he pats Tom's chest and leaves, still giggling.

Tom _does_ feel a little better. He loves Kuzy.

“Anyway,” Carly says, trying to control his own smile. “He's a shitbag that doesn't know about where animals live.”

“Lions don't live in the jungle,” Tom repeats, which he's pretty sure he knew.

“Nope,” Carly says, then raises his voice and adds, “Tigers do, though,” as Lars walks by. Tom turns to look at him.

“Don't associate me with him!” Lars says, distaste clear in his expression. “I want nothing to do with it.”

“You got it, Tiger,” Carly says.

Lars does come by Tom though, and affectionately pets his hair. “How're you doing, big guy?”

“Not great,” Tom says honestly. “Better than last night, though.”

Lars drops his voice, and asks, sly, “You taking care of Holts?”

Tom stares at him. “You mean, is he taking care of me?”

“No,” Lars says.

Tom can't handle this. He shakes his head, just once, an aborted movement.

Lars widens his eyes, bright blue and full of false innocence.

“No,” Tom just says. No, no. An answer to the question and a refusal of acknowledgement and a please-go-away.

“Sure,” Lars says, drawing the word out long, before slipping away.

Backy and now Tiger. The fucking Scandinavians.

 

 -

 

Backy orchestrates switching room assignments - Siegs and Dowder get to have singles for the night, and Tom and Holts take their double. No wasted rooms, and two big dudes don't have to squeeze to fit into one bed. Win-win, Tom tells himself, and doesn't sulk at all.

The guys all go to nap as soon as they've got room cards, but Tom slept so much during the drive that he can’t bed down again. He can’t stay still either, and doesn’t want to bother Holts with his fidgeting, so he slips out of the room.

It's the middle of the afternoon and there’s nothing to fucking do.

He can’t read, he can’t watch TV. He’s not great at killing time in his head, never has been. He doesn’t daydream well. And he's got shit he doesn't want to dwell on.

He roams the hotel for a bit, does some people-watching, but backs off when he starts to get noticed. He’s not sure if they recognize him, or if it’s just that he’s big and has the kind of face that draws attention.

At least he doesn't have any cuts or bruises. He idly touches the scar across his eyebrow.

He makes another circuit of the hotel - he’s starting to get weird looks from even the cleaning staff - but this time he stops in front of the fitness center.

It’s completely empty, not a single person on any machine or mat. Tom rubs at the back of his neck, feeling guilty for even thinking of working out.

There’s really nothing to do, though. And he’s already wearing gym shorts and sneakers.

He looks up and down the hall, furtive.

Fuck it. He won’t do any cardio. Won’t do anything that bounces his head around at all. Zero impact. Some stretches and maybe weights. He'll zen out or something. Yoga, man. Everything’s chill.

 

-

 

Tom leaves the gym over an hour later, shaky and slick with sweat. His bruises ache. There are some good endorphins going, but the sharp pain in his head drowns them out.

He probably fucked up a little. There were a lot more weights involved than he had intended.

Despite how weak and unsteady he feels, he makes it back to the room without being spotted, though there’s a close call with Snarls and Kuzy near the elevators, who are both laughing too hard about something on their phones to be paying attention.

Holts is still asleep when Tom slips in the door, so he’s able to head right to the bathroom. Takes a second to turn on the shower, before bracing himself on the counter and leaning his head down to the stone. The chill on his forehead doesn’t feel great, but it’s _different,_ and gives him something to focus on instead of the beating inside his skull.

Standing in the shower turns out to be too much for his legs to take, and he has to sit in the tub. The water sluices hot over his shoulders - he doesn’t like taking warm showers after a workout, but he feels so off that he can’t fathom taking a cold one, so he’s just stuck in a limbo of. Of. Of no good water temperatures.  
  
Shit.

Eventually he manages to wash his hair.

By the time Tom clambers out of the tub, successfully wraps himself in a towel, and makes his way back into the room on sore legs, Holts is awake.

“Sup,” Tom says.

Holts, propped up in his bed with his tablet in one hand, gives Tom a long look. “Hey Willy,” he says, after slight pause.

Tom's not sure if the stare had some sort of suspicion behind it, or if it was meant to be encouraging, or if Holts was just looking. Or _looking._

Tom grabs clothes and bolts back to the bathroom.

He can't remember the last time he felt so awkward around a teammate. He'll blame it on the concussion.

He uses the hotel hairdryer, and the dry heat on his skin is maybe the best feeling he's had in days.

Bundled in a fresh pair of sweats and an old hoodie, he emerges from the bathroom, working hard to look like he's steady on his feet. Tom bites at the edge of his thumb, eyeing his empty bed, and then looking over at Holts.

Tom's a needy shit when he doesn't feel well, alright, and he tries not to be around most people, he tries to keep a cork in it, but Holts makes it easy to not be okay.

He loiters.

“Hey Holts, can I,” Tom eventually starts, and then sort of uselessly waves his hand at the empty space by Holts on his bed.

Holts raises his eyebrows at him, but all he says is, “Sure.” He scoots over a little. Grins and pats space next to him, like a nerd.

“Cool,” Tom says, completely normal, and crawls onto the bed.

He settles into place, turned on his side, curved inwards towards Holts. Presses the heel of one hand to his forehead and breathes deep through the ache there. Holts watches him.

His eyebrows furrow. Which, with Holts, is like an exercise in seismic activity. It's a process.

“You're overexerting,” Holts says, disapproving.

“I am not,” Tom says, but as it comes out he realizes what a fucking child he sounds like and barely avoids wincing.

“Obviously you are. Quit it. We want you better, _you_ want you better, and everyone wants you back on the ice.”

 _Everyone_ , Tom thinks.

“Yeah,” he says. Sets his jaw. Doesn’t point out that Holts is wrong. Doesn't think about all the people who would celebrate if he never came back at all.

He keeps getting waves of that - he feels fucking fine, except for the messed up brain thing, and then he'll be struck by a stray thought of, _oh yeah, a ton of people totally hate your fucking guts and cheered you getting hurt_. _Remember how someone once doxxed your family? How your parents worked so hard to get you to where you are, and you repaid them by maybe putting them in actual fucking danger? Remember? Remember?_

Oh, Holts is talking.

“You listening?” he's just asked.

“Yeah,” Tom says. He is now, he guesses.

“Just behave, Willy. Be good.”

Tom goes quiet, because that. That gets him somewhere deep. Hooks into his chest, and lower, and there it burns a little. It clears everything else out of his head.

“Okay?” Holts asks, glancing over.

“Yeah,” Tom acknowledges, agrees, acquiesces. Whatever. Sure.

“Rest,” Holts says, turning back to his tablet.

Tom slumps down into the mass of pillows, pulls the extra blanket from the foot of the bed up over his shoulders. It's a good idea, is all, it's not that Holts told him to do it, or that he wants to be- it’s not important. 

He closes his eyes.

A hand settles against his head, soft and light. It stays there for a moment before fingers start carding through his hair, long, slow passes that are so good that Tom can focus on that rather than the headache. It feels like a reward.

He drifts in it, warm, and falls asleep like that, Holts' hand in his hair.

Tom dreams of a shinny he played as a kid, outside Toronto at one of his friends’ houses. Everything is shades of grey, the iced over pond and the dead grass and the sky, but when he looks back across the ice the kids are his boys now, his team, shocks of color all in bright home-red. None of them notice him.

He stands at the edge of the pond, in banged up skates and holding a poorly taped stick, and feels small. Raps his stick against the ice, but no one looks at him. He can't move his feet and he can't yell - all he can do is just keep banging the blade of his stick, knocking up chips of ice as everyone skates away.

When he starts to wake up, he can't remember anything of the dream, except for the feeling of being left behind.

He's alone in the bed. His hand, entirely without his permission, reaches out to the empty space next to him and splays across the blanket.

As his head gets a little less foggy, he realizes he can hear Holts shuffling stuff around in his suitcase.

Tom has no idea how long he slept - he's disoriented, with no sense of time at all, but he still asks, his voice thick with sleep, “Dinner?”

“Boys all went out. We’re getting room service.” Holts deposits a menu on the bed.

“Why?”

Holts looks at him. “Because you need to rest.”

“I just napped,” Tom grumbles, struggling to sit up, trying to get the sleep out of his head.

“And earlier you went to the gym like a damn idiot and set yourself back.”

Tom freezes, still tangled up in blankets. “Uh.”

“You left your workout clothes on the bathroom floor.”

Ah, shit. He's so damn bad at being sneaky.

“You are really dumb sometimes,” Holts tells him, and like, Tom knows, but hey.

“Cutting deep, Holtby,” Tom mutters, and finally manages to wrench the blankets off himself. His head still aches. A lot of him does. He’s not gonna say that Holts is probably right.

He grabs the room service menu and holds it to his face to study it, and maybe also hide behind it for a minute.

He's not nauseated anymore, which is a fucking blessing, and he can actually find an appetite. Holts is disappointed in him, but Tom's still a little cheery at his stomach having calmed the fuck down - Holts gives him impressed eyebrows after Tom adds his order to the call.

They put the TV on ESPN, volume low, and for a bit Tom listens to NFL talking heads with his eyes closed.

He hears Holts moving around, and looks over.

He's is running his hand over the case of his guitar, back and forth, before tapping fingers against a latch.

“Hey Whip,” Holts starts.

“Go 'head,” Tom says, watching Holts’ fingers through heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don't mind?”

“Nah,” Tom says. “It'd be nice.”

Tom dozes off again to the sound to Holts singing under his breath, picking out a tune on his guitar.

He startles awake when room service knocks, manages to smack his hand on the bedside table, and curls over it in pain while Holts laughs at him on his way to the door.

“Stop,” Tom says, wincing as he shakes out his hand.

“Some kind of athlete you are - what happened to your spatial awareness?”

“First of all,” Tom says, even as Holts opens the door to greet the the server, “I'm not a goalie, I don't have super powers, and also, I am *concussed.*”

“Sounds like an excuse,” Holts says. He quietly thanks and tips the server, sets down the tray, turns to face Tom with raised eyebrows.

“You have an awful lot of attitude right now.”

“Trying to re-establish normalcy.”

Tom’s not sure if he means, like. Before Tom got hurt in general, or before that fucking quote, or before weird not-talked about pseudo-cuddling.

“Sure,” Tom mutters, and finally manages to get out of bed.

They get about a minute into eating before Holts asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Pre’ty ‘kay,” Tom says, halfway through a large mouthful of rice.

“Chew your food,” Holts says, with mild exasperation, before asking, “You need to talk anything out? Like the shit from earlier today?”

“Noooo,” Tom says to his chicken. “Nope.”

“M'kay,” Holts replies. His eyebrows are skeptical, but he doesn't push.

Tom crushes his dinner, and Holts doesn't try to get him to talk about feelings or anything again.

They sleep in their respective beds that night, which is absolutely fine. Tom is a big dude and generates plenty of his own heat now that's he's starting to feel less sick; he definitely doesn't miss having the warmth of a broad back pressed against his. Re-establishing normalcy.

 

-

 

When the team goes to the rink for morning skate, Tom stays at the hotel and FaceTimes Taylor. Holts had let him have his phone back before he headed out, though he'd given Tom a stern look as he handed it over.

“Hey baby,” Taylor says with warm eyes when she answers the call.

“Fuck, it's good to see you,” Tom blurts out, kneejerk.

She laughs; a bright sound, sweetly familiar. “Yeah, yeah. How're you holding up?”

He gives her a rundown, holding his head in one hand because it feels to heavy for his neck to keep up alone.

“Yeah, you're not looking great,” she says, when he finishes. “You want to talk about the Reaves stuff?”

Tom squeezes his eyes shut. “Absolutely not.” He wishes people would stop asking.

“Okay,” she says, a little soothing. Which lasts all of two seconds, because next she says, “Shit, honey, you really do look run down.”

“Fuck you,” he responds automatically, even though that sort of frankness is something he loves about her. Most of the time.

“Speaking of,” she says, completely unbothered, “how's Braden doing?”

“Um,” Tom says.

“Um,” she parrots, though she looks fond.

Tom sits back and rubs his face with both hands. “I dunno T, he's just being Holts. S'not any different than normal.”

“You slept in the same bed the other night,” she points out.

“I was too messed up to even really think about anything.” Which was lucky, in a shitty kind of way. If he had been feeling okay he almost definitely would've made shit super weird. His dick doesn't behave sometimes.

He hasn't told her about the, like, hairpetting. So he does, rubbing at his jaw self-consciously, and as she listens her face gets increasingly gleeful.

Taylor stares at him for a moment when he finishes and then says, confident as all hell, “We're gonna get you fucked.”

“I'm pretty sure most girlfriends aren't this into getting their boyfriends to have sex with someone else.”

“I'm pretty sure most boyfriends don't have an opportunity to fuck a handsome Vezina-winning NHL goalie,” she counters.

“Saying there's an opportunity is pretty far-fetched, babe,” Tom says. “I don't know if, like, he's even interested.”

“Anyone with any sense would be interested, and Braden Holtby is a very sensible man. Besides, what kind of guy does he hook up with, when he does?’

Tom rubs his hand over his mouth. Brandi is small and blonde and unbearably cute, but the guys Holts picks up are almost always big and broad, with dark hair.

“Huh,” Tom says.

Taylor looks smug. “We need a game plan.”

This is too much. “You brainstorm, I'm gonna nap.”

“Alright, sleep well babe,” she says. Her expression is sweet, but quickly flips into something conspiratorial. “Do it shirtless.”

“I am hanging up!” he absolutely does not yelp, and ends the call, cutting off Taylor's cackling.

He does nap without a shirt, though.

Except he can’t stay asleep, just tosses and turns and stretches and curls back up, until he gives the fuck up and goes to wander around the hotel.

He's good and doesn't go to the gym.

A bunch of the guys flood into Conno's room to play Mario Kart when they get back from their skate - Tom tries to hang out with them for a bit, sends some snaps to Osh (who is righteously indignant about missing a Kart opportunity), but the noise starts to get to him, makes his head throb again, and he has to leave.

He thinks about going back to the room, and instead texts to find the rest of the boys.

Carly replies immediately, tells Tom to come and be chill with him.

Sounds as good as anything, so Tom goes.

Carly has set up camp in some random corner lounge on the third floor of the hotel. He waves at Tom when he wanders in.

Beelining for a couch, Tom half-misses a fist bump, and topples over into the cushions. Settles onto his back, head propped up on the padded arm of the couch.

“Sup Whip,” Carly says.

“Hey.”

“Any exciting improvements today?”

“Screens don't kill my head anymore. And I can read, kinda.”

“Which is super impressive since you couldn't read at all before,” Carly chirps, blithely.

“Fuck off old man,” Tom says to the ceiling.

Carly's tablet chimes with a notification.

When Carly doesn't chirp back, Tom sits up to look at him.

He's staring at his tablet, and as Tom watches, his face grows thunderous. His free hand curls into a fist on the table, so tight his knuckles blanch.

“Uh,” Tom says. “What?"

“Fucking piece of shit,” Carly spits, under his breath.

“Carly,” Tom prompts. He doesn't get a response.

Kind of worrying.

“John,” Tom tries again. “Don't leave me hanging, eh?”

“Fuck.” Carly shakes out his free hand, rubs his face. “It's a good thing we don't play Vegas again this season, or we'd all end up suspended.” He turns the screen to Tom, though he has to scoot closer on the couch to see.

Oh.

Reaves has signed some photos.

Reaves has signed some photos of Tom down on the ice, on his hands and knees, Reaves laughing above him. He wrote that fucking lion quote on it. They're being sold, apparently.

He wonders how much they're being sold for.

Okay. Okay.

“Oh,” Tom says.

“That's a thing,” Tom says.

“Okay, alright. Shit,” Tom says.

He can imagine the reactions. Those'll sell. They'll sell like fucking crazy, people'll rejoice in it, and nevermind Reaves making money off injuring a player. Tom's a hockey pariah, and he deserves what he gets. He knuckles at his chest, across his sternum, in the direction of his heart.

“Fucking unacceptable,” Carly says. “Jesus.” He leans back in his chair, makes an inarticulate sound of disgust.

“Think PR's seen it?” Tom asks. His voice sounds distant, cotton in his head.

“Probably, but I don't know what the fuck they'd do about it.”

Ovi bursts into the room, cursing in Russian, Backy on his heels. They both have their phones in their hands.

“Did you run here?” Tom asks. He doesn't feel right.

“We were already on the way,” Backy says.

“Maybe it's not real,” Tom says. Tries the benefit of the doubt.

Backy looks at him, pale, all-seeing eyes.

“Reaves is kind of a dick, but he. I mean,” Tom tries again.

“Willy,” Backy says.

Tom is rattled. “Yeah,” he says, and stares at a terrible hotel painting, because making eye contact is beyond him.

Ovi pulls Tom off the couch to hug him. Tom holds on, a little too hard, presses his head into Ovi’s shoulder.

 _You never truly want to be hated,_ he once said in an interview.

Well.

 

-

 

Tom gets through the afternoon in a daze. Ovi and Burkie and Conno and Holts keep near him, other guys cycling through periodically, leaving a friendly hand on his shoulder or ruffling his hair, trying to ground him. It kind of works.

He eats dinner on autopilot, in the hotel restaurant with the team. He has enough sense to make himself eat, despite how wrong he feels. It’s not any lingering nausea from the concussion, it’s not anything at all from the concussion. It's just *him.* He doesn’t want to think about anything.

There are smears of salad dressing left on his plate, small bits of lettuce, and he pushes them around with his fork, focusing on that and absolutely nothing else.

Burkie leans into him, and when Tom doesn’t acknowledge him, he gets up in Tom’s face and then kisses him obnoxiously on the forehead.

“Dude,” Tom says, shoving him away as Burkie giggles, “you’re not allowed to sit in booths with me anymore.”

“You love me,” Burkie says, and he bounces off to go deal with some weird fucking pregame superstition, leaving Tom with a reluctant smile

Madison drops by the table as soon as Burkie is gone, takes his spot in the booth.

“You’re not gonna kiss me too, are you?”

“You wish,” Madison says. “Look, this fucking sucks, but hey man, we'll hang out, eh?” He smiles at Tom, wide and genuine.

Oh, shit, right. Madison’s out tonight.

Tom can't actually remember the last time he was a healthy scratch, but can still find the feeling of not being enough. It lingers. It finds you in other ways, sometimes. The rookies all handle it so well though, he's proud of them.

“For sure,” he manages. Fist bumps Madison, scrounges up a half-real grin. Maybe that’ll get him out of his head.

He goes to the arena with the boys, game day suit on like everything's normal, like he's gonna get to play.

He meets with a trainer while the boys play soccer, and they don’t give him shit.

Tom lingers in the dressing room when the team floods back in from warm-ups, bouncing on their skates and ready to go. He's tucked into a corner, leaning against a wall, feeling small in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

He holds his head with one hand, doesn't want to watch the guys amp themselves up, yell in each other's faces. Doesn't want to think about what he's missing. Doesn’t want to think.

Instead he watches Holts switch his helmet out for a Caps hat. Watches him breathing deep with his eyes closed, frozen in place while everyone else moves around him.

Holts opens his eyes, focus flipped on. He catches Tom looking and comes over, trundling in his pads.

“Hey Whip,” he says.

“Hey Holts,” Tom says. He sounds beat. Beaten. Well, shit, he sure feels it.

Holts studies him, face serious. He tilts his head. It makes him look kinda like a bird.

“Don’t read anything,” Holts says, after a moment.

“It’s nothing new,” Tom says, and it’s true.

“That doesn’t mean you should subject yourself to it.” Holts dips his head slightly, like he was thinking about knocking their helmets together, but neither of them are wearing theirs. Instead he raises a hand to the back of Tom's neck, rests it just for a second at his nape, fingers nudging into his hair, and then drops it.

Tom shivers all over.

“Go work on being captain-y with Madison, he's feeling shitty about being a scratch,” Holts says, and is off.

“Yeah,” Tom says to himself. It's a good idea.

He finds Madison just emerging from the crowd, and catching him with a hand on his shoulder, Tom reels him back to sling an arm around his neck.

“Hey bro!”

Tom's gonna be fucking normal if it kills him. Aggressively normal, through any stupid pain he's in, and with definite and deliberate refusal to acknowledge any feelings he may have, of any sort. Because fuck that.

 

-

 

They take down the Coyotes 4-2.

 

-

 

They fly to Columbus that night. Tom sits with Burkie on the plane, and doesn't miss sitting next to Holts at all.

The team is tired from the game but pumped from the win, so no one sleeps on the plane - there's a lot of excited chatter, some chirping, and every so often a pillow or a hoodie gets thrown at someone. Ovi runs the playlist.

Burkie plays cards with Tom for awhile during the flight, which is honestly pretty great, a good distraction, and he has more fun than he's had in days.

Periodically, Tom catches Holts looking at him. Just a thoughtful glance every so often, but it's enough to get Tom feeling twisted up in a not entirely unpleasant way. When Holts notices him looking back, he just smiles at Tom and goes back to reading.

Huh.

Burkie flicks a card at him.

 

-

 

They don't really need to be sharing a room anymore, but Backy makes the switch anyway. Tom doesn't say anything about it, and neither does Holts.

His good mood from the flight is gone, like it fell and crashed as the plane touched down, and Tom is exhausted in all the ways a person can be, he thinks - he feels like he's carrying a bone-deep weariness, limbs heavy with it. He should pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, but he doesn't.

It could be the concussion - the last time he had one, he could hardly sleep at all. It's been weird this go around, the way he's dozing off everywhere. Maybe his brain has flipped its symptoms.

Or maybe it's just him. Causing problems. Just something about Tom. Seems to be the way things are going.

He wishes he could call Taylor. He wishes he could call Osh. He misses both of them so much.  
  
It's too dark in the room for him to pick out patterns on the ceiling. The A/C unit in the room kicks on with a rattle, drowns out Holts' even breaths, washes him out, leaves Tom feeling like he's alone in the room, which isn't something he loves.  
  
Guess it's good that Backy made the room change after all.

Tom twists onto his side, tries to find the shape of Holts in the bed next to him.

He wants really badly to wake Holts up. He wants a lot.

 

-

 

Backy collects Tom at breakfast and guides him over to a table with Ovi and Carly so subtly that Tom doesn't even realize it's happening until he's sitting. He gives Backy an impressed look, who just sips his coffee in response.

Tom takes a long drink of water and ignores the panel of team dads in front of him.

Holts comes and joins them, which makes things approximately ten times worse.

Backy sets his coffee to the side and looks at Tom.

“So Reaves apologized for the photos,” he says. “Apparently realized it was in bad taste and had them destroyed before any could be sold.”

“Sure,” Holts says. He looks disgusted. “Before or after the backlash? Anyone want to take bets?”

“No fucking bet,” Ovi says, and takes a giant bite of waffle. Carly gives him a look that’s both disgusted and impressed.

Tom chews on his lip.

“You wanna do anything, Willy?” Backy asks.

“No,” he says. What would he do?

“We take care of you,” Ovi says.

“I know,” Tom says.

 

-

 

Tom has another meeting with trainers and doctors after breakfast, which honestly is great, because it gives him a solid distraction, takes up space in his head.  
  
And then things get even better from there, because apparently despite his new incredible inability to sleep, he's doing way better. Improving by leaps and bounds. They refuse to give him a real estimation for when he can get back on skates, but they say it should be soon.  
  
So he's in a damn good mood, despite the fact that he barely slept and. Everything else.  
  
He checks his phone - there's a text from Taylor waiting for him, a response to him whining about his inability to sleep.  
  
Her response is, _if u would just get urself fucked u'd sleep all day_ and then some very rude emojis.

 _wow_ , he sends back.

 _Im not the supportive partner u deserve, but the one u need_ , she says. _go get that d_

Before he can even try to make a joke himself, she adds, _g_ _oalie-d not d-d_  
  
_i hate you_  
  
_love u!!!_

 

Tom lets himself back into their room. Holts is on his bed, tipped back against the pillows. His eyes are closed and his breathing is deep and even, but he's fully dressed, so if he's actually napping, he didn't mean to be.

Tom quietly toes off his shoes, makes his way over to the corner chair and perches on the edge of the seat.

He lets himself look at Holts - his ridiculous eyelashes at odds with the severity of his brow, the line of his throat, the delicate curve of his ear.

Tom is thoughtful, even as nerves build slow in his chest.

There've been hints, he thinks. A lot of looks. Hand in his hair, on the back of his neck, at his collarbone.

He rubs at his chin, bites his thumb for a second.

Makes a decision.

Fortune favors the brave, right? That's a thing people say, he's pretty sure.

He gets up, goes to Holts’ bed. Nudges his shoulder until he opens his eyes, and then puts one knee to the mattress, swings the other wide over the splay of Holts’ legs, and settles his weight on to the bulk of Holts’ thighs.

“I was sleeping,” Holts murmurs.

“Napping now would mess up your schedule.”

“Hm,” is all Holts responds with, and then there's silence.

Tom feels like he might be going crazy, because they're talking like normal but he’s almost in his goalie's lap, without a joke in his head or prank in sight, which is not, in fact, actually,  in the least normal. He settles down a little more firmly, feels the stretch in his hips, would relish it if his heart wasn't trying to beat out of his chest. His mouth is dry. He licks his lips.

Holts’ eyes drop to his mouth, and he shifts his weight under Tom, just slightly, before flicking his eyes back up to meet Tom's.

“What're you doing, Willy?” Holts asks. There's a burr in his voice, sleep and something else.

“Ask me about the List,” Tom says, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. He's not a coward, but he feels like he needs to get this out before it curdles in him.

“List?”

“You know,” Tom says.

Holts blinks at him, slow and heavy-lidded. “What's your list, Willy?”

“The people Taylor and I have that are totally okay to fuck,” Tom says, with remarkable steadiness. Go him.

Holts just raises his eyebrows.

Tom bites the inside of his cheek. “That's you,” he says, which honestly feels kind of unnecessary, the way he's straddling Holt's legs.

“Just me?” Holts asks, tone completely even.

“Well,” Tom says, caught a little off guard. He licks his lips again, and doesn't miss how Holts’ eyes drop back to his mouth. “Latts. That might have happened.” He waits a second, and adds, “and if I ever had the chance, Lundqvist.”

Holts laughs a little at that, though it's small, contained. Doesn't shatter their weird little bubble.

“Another goalie?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. “Should I be jealous?”

Tom closes his eyes, opens them, exhales carefully. “I don't know, should you?”

Holts kisses him.

Which is a pretty good answer.

It's slow and molten, and Tom feels burned right through and melted down. He sinks a little lower into the spread of his legs, getting closer to Holts, pushing in. Holts settles one hand on Tom's side, a couple fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt and pressing to bare skin. The other hand comes up to spread across Tom's neck, against the hinge of his jaw, tilting his head the way Holts wants it.

That's just. Tom exhales shakily into Holts’ just-parted lips. Catches his lower lip in his, touches his tongue to it in something that feels a little like adulation.

Holts hums - Tom can feel it through the join of their mouths - and drops his hands to Tom's hips. He grips hard and yanks Tom forward as Holts starts to sit up a little straighter, raising his knees into a bend, so Tom finds himself in the cradle of Holts’ hips. His hands fly back up to hold Tom's jaw, keeping him in place for Holts to take him apart.

Tom feels lightheaded in a way completely unrelated to head trauma. He's not hard yet, but Jesus, he will be soon.

Holts is always so precise, so even-keeled, until he runs out patience and a flash of fire catches him, and this is what that feels like.

Tom realizes he's not doing anything with his hands, which is fucking stupid because apparently he can touch, and now that he can that's all that he wants with a * _fervor_.* He presses his palms flat to Holt's stomach, slides them down and back up under his shirt. The calluses on his fingers catch in chest hair, and he has to break away from the kiss to catch his breath because he wasn't prepared for how hot he finds that.

“Jesus, your mouth,” Holts says, voice low. He touches his fingers to Tom's lips, and Tom parts them instinctively, lets the tips of Holts’ fingers just brush against his tongue.

Holts raises his eyebrows, a question. Tom answers by dropping his mouth open wider, letting Holts slide two fingers into his mouth, pressing his tongue up against them.

“Fuck,” Holts swears with vehemence, and pushes his fingers a little deeper. Tom just takes it. He can feel how swollen his lips are already, just from kissing and beard burn and Holts’ teeth, and he knows how they must look, puffy like he's already had his mouth fucked. He shifts his weight at the thought of it, ends up rocking down into Holts’ half-hard cock. A groan creeps out of him, embarrassing, and he swallows against the fingers in his mouth.

“Are you always like this?” Holts asks. He draws his hand back, places his saliva-slick fingers on Tom’s chest, lets the dampness seep into his shirt. His fingers are so close to his nipple. Holtby’s a fucking tease. Tom should have known.

“Like what?” Tom's voice already sounds fucked out. They've hardly done anything.

Holts tugs on his hair a little, and he melts. _Oh_.

“Like that,” Holts says.

Tom licks his lips. All of him feels like it's tingling. “Only with guys. And even then, not a lot. Not, uh. Not much.”

He's never really thought about it much, which hasn't been a conscious decision so much as, like. There haven't been many guys who make him feel this kind of heady, and when it does happen it's usual a one-off kind of thing, so there's hasn't really been a reason to investigate it.

He doesn't want to investigate it right now, either - he feels good and could feel better, and maybe he wants to be that, too. Good.

Holts gazes at him, considering, calm even as his eyes burn.

“And you like it.”

Tom nearly wants to laugh, can feel it a little desperate in his throat. “Yes, god, obviously, don't chirp me at a time like this.” Tom shifts forward. Holts’ grip in his hair tightens in response.

“I'm not chirping, I'm checking that this is okay for you.”

“I promise I will tell you if anything isn't okay, Holts,” Tom says.

Holts continues to hold his gaze, a long and drawn out pause. Tom feels stripped down. It's a struggle to not look away.

“Alright,” Holts finally says. Then asks, “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” Tom says, maybe too fast, but fuck it, it's true. He's thought about it enough, especially the last few days - about Holts’ laser focus, about his intensity, about his meticulousness, and how it all would translate to fucking around. To * _fucking_.* He knows anything they do will be good. Shit, it's already amazing, and they've just been making out and grinding like horny teenagers.

“And if I want to fuck you?” Holts asks. Tom's hips jerk in reaction, and he rides down into the heat and hardness of Holts’ cock.

“Yes,” Tom breathes.

“Yes,” Holts echoes. There's a weight to his stare, as he catches Tom's eyes, holds his gaze, as he slides his hands to Tom's ass, one hand on each cheek. He grabs hard, pulls Tom's hips in again, encourages him to ride his cock into Holts’ stomach. Even through the fabric of his boxers, Tom can feel the slight bite of fingernails, and arches back into them before grinding forward again.

Tom drops his head to the curve of Holts’ neck, mouths over the skin, feels beard scratch his cheek. One of Holts’ hands stays gripped hard on Tom's ass as the other - the one still damp with Tom’s spit, jesus -  comes up to the waist of Tom's boxers, fingers playing light along the skin of his lower back, before edging below the fabric and trailing down between his cheeks. One finger brushes across his hole, comes back with more pressure, rubs over the tight skin.

“Fuck.” Tom exhales sharply, squeezes his eyes shut.

Holts hums in agreement.

“Not now, though,” Holts says, even as he shifts his hand, hooks the tip of his thumb just into Tom's hole, the slightest dry nudge.

“I can't risk straining something before the game,” he continues, and oh, right. Shit. And that's already happened once this season, Tom won't forgive himself if he's the cause for it happening again. He frowns.

Holts kisses it away, then says, “I can still make you come, though.”

Shit, Tom thinks again.

“Shit,” he says, unable to help it.

Holts pulls his hands away, and before Tom can really miss them they're back on his hips.

“Flip over, on your back,” Holts says. It's not a suggestion.

Tom can't follow directions fast enough, nearly flings himself off Holts’ lap to splay out on his back, legs spread instinctively. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, though. Lets one go to his dick, squeezing hard through his sweats. The other stays at his side, clenching and twisting in the sheets.

“Jesus,” Holts says, watching Tom fist his erection through fabric for a second, before adding, “Shirt off.

Tom yanks it off in an instant, pulling from the back up over his head - the collar's gonna be all stretched out and he doesn't care.

Holts rolls over to kneel above Tom, gets his hands on Tom's sweats and briefs and pulls them down together, tosses them away, and that's weirdly hot too, that Tom's got him in such a state that he's getting messy.

Before Tom can even try to prepare himself, Holts has dropped down to press his teeth to the inside of Tom's thigh. His beard scratches against the sensitive skin, and Tom has to fight to stay still, to keep from pulling away and pushing into it.

“Stay,” Holts days, tone remarkably even. His hands bracket Tom's hips, thumbs to the bone, and he pushes Tom into the mattress pointedly.

Jesus, okay.

“Okay,” Tom says out loud, for good measure. “Okay.”

Holts gets his mouth on Tom's cock, and Tom thinks he whites out for a second. He would buck into it, wants to, forgets all his manners, except for the hands on his hips grounding him.

So he tightens his abs to work to keep himself pinned in place, to keep himself behaving.

It gets good too fast, Holts wrapping one callused hand around the base of Tom's erection as he pulls off to mouth around the head. Dips his tongue just lightly into the slit, collects the bead of precome there, before taking Tom's length back in his mouth, to the back of his throat.

At that Tom does roll his hips, he can’t help it - Holts pulls back in an instant to drop his whole forearm across Tom's lower stomach, really leans into it and levers his weight down.

“Keep still, Tom,” Holts says, his voice a little thick - from Tom's dick, _shit_ \- and Tom's toes curl.

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. Yes. He reaches his arms up above his head, tries to focus on the stretch of his shoulders, because he's already too close to the edge. Grabs at the pillows, knots his fingers in the fabric.

“Good,” Holts says, approving, before taking Tom's cock back into his mouth, slick and hot and so good Tom wants to cry.

Tom's eyes keep fluttering shut, a curse and a blessing - he desperately wants to watch Holts, but the sight of him between Tom's thighs is so fucking hot that it nearly wrecks him, and he'd really like to not embarrass himself.

Holts takes him deep again, swallows around him, and Tom makes an embarrassing sound, squeezes his eyes shut tight. Out of nowhere he thinks of the sleep mask Holts had lent him, thinks of being blindfolded and just left to _take_ what's given to him, and that's just, fuck-

“Holts, m'gonna-” Tom starts, and Holts hums an acknowledgement, the vibrations sending bolts of heat through Tom. He leans down hard into the arm across Tom's hips again, raises his free hand to cradle Tom's balls and then squeeze, just lightly, and that's it- Tom's dick kicks and he's coming down Holts’ throat, so, so good that he feels it in bone-deep shudders.

“Holy fuck,” Tom manages, as Holts pulls off. He opens his eyes. “Jesus.”

Holts bites at the inside of Tom's thigh again, not hard, but enough to make Tom's whole body roll through the feeling, enough to make him whine.

Holts digs his fingers into Tom's thigh before dropping his hands to his own belt. He presses the heel of his hand to his cock for a moment, obvious even through his pants, and closes his eyes tight. Tom's mouth floods.

Holts eyes snap back open, and in just a couple of seconds he has his zipper undone and his dick out.

“I wanna,” Tom drawls, comedrunk and stupid, and reaches out for Holts’ cock. It's flushed and thick and Tom really wants to touch it.

“Stay,” Holts says. He knees up to Tom's hips, straddles his stomach. Tom drops his hand to Holts’ thigh instead, presses his fingertips into hard muscle and denim, and holds on as Holts fists his own cock and starts to jerk off.

“Fuck,” Tom says. He sounds a little in awe - and maybe he is, watching Holts get himself off after blowing Tom's damn brains out.

Holts comes on Tom's abs, one streak up to his chest, nearly to the hollow of his throat. Holts is breathing hard, squeezes himself through the end of it, and then draws two fingers through the mess on Tom's stomach, just watching.

“That was so hot,” Tom says. He feels like he's been poleaxed in the fucking best way. He can't get hard again, but the come on his chest, the way Holts is intent on it, still curls some heat into the base of his gut.

“Yeah,” Holts says, and then finally looks up. He meets Tom's eyes and smiles.

Tom finds himself grinning back, automatic and goofy.

Holts leans down to kiss him, slow and almost reserved, before getting off up and out of bed. He never even took his clothes off.

A whole body shiver catches Tom at that realization, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut at the too-soon rush of arousal. His dick twitches and he has to press a hand against himself for a second.

He's got himself back under control a minute later, when Holts returns from the bathroom with a damp washcloth, already put back together. He cleans Tom off, gently and with more attention than Tom is really prepared for.

By unspoken agreement they move to the other bed. Tom is pretty useless, just spreads himself out over the clean sheets and melts.

“Come cuddle,” Tom says to the pillow.

“Pushy.”

“'m bigger than you,” Tom mumbles. “Better listen.”

Holts laughs at him, but gets into bed anyway, and Tom immediately drapes himself over him, one arm tossed over Holts’ chest, his face tucked into Holts’ neck, into the soft skin below the line of his beard.

“Feeling okay?” Holts asks.  
  
“Fucking great,” Tom says, already half asleep.

“You were real good,” Holts says, and Tom feels flooded with a warm, syrupy sort of heat.

 

-

 

When Tom wakes up, he actually feels well-rested.

Fuck, Taylor was right.

Tom still feels kind of fucked out, all loose limbs and a sort of smugness. He's pretty sure he's got beard burn on his neck. Definitely on his thighs. He might have hickeys on his thighs, actually, and he resists the urge to reach down and poke around for bruises.

He's alone in the room, and part of him wants to text Holts to ask where he is, but he just puts on a Law and Order marathon instead.

Holts comes back about fifteen minutes after Tom woke up, so he'd especially glad he didn't text.

He's carrying a few takeout containers, and pauses just inside the door when he sees the TV on. His expression isn't nervous, or anything, but there's some sort of weirdness there, and Tom's chest feels caved in to see it.

“Hey Tom,” Holts says. He sets the food down, takes off his shoes, slings his jacket over a chair. “Thought you would still be asleep.”

“Guess not,” Tom says. He sits up properly, scoots back against the headboard, rubs at his chin. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Holts says, then asks, “Are you?’

“Sure.” Tom doesn't know if he sounds like he means it. He probably doesn't, since Holts has his unimpressed face on - which Tom kind of appreciates, because it's at least a face he's familiar with.

Tom puts on his most normal voice and asks, “Hey, is this weird? Is this gonna be weird?”

Holts looks at him, expression flat. “Do you want it to be weird?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then it won't be weird.”

“Is this like your goalie mantra?”

“Maybe,” Holts says, and starts to grin, breaking wide across his face. “Don't knock it 'til you try it.”

Okay.  “Why were you being weird when you came in?”

“I didn't want to be gone when you woke up.” Holts shrugs, kind of awkward.

“Why the fuck would you worry about that?"

“You were kind of out of it when you fell asleep, and I wasn't sure if you still would be.”

Tom knows he's making his confused face, his eyebrows twisted up. “Okay, that's. Whatever. If shit isn't weird can you still come cuddle?”

“Sure,” Holts says, and sounds fond.

“Cool,” Tom says, and feels way better when he's folded in against Holts’ side.

 

 -

 

It's not weird.

The takeout is terrible, delicious Chinese food that their trainers would kill them for. They eat it for lunch, and it's not weird.

They get dinner with the boys, and it's not weird, though Backy does side eye them a bit. Tom gets it way more than Holts does, which seems unfair, but otherwise it's chill.

They wake up in the morning after having slept in the same bed, and it's not weird.

“Your goalie superpowers are fucking incredible,” Tom says. He's kind of amazed.

Holts gives him a lop-sided grin. “Just gotta listen, eh?”

“Damn. Guess so,” Tom says.

He shakes his head to himself, and watches Holts’ ass as he disappears into the bathroom. Amazing.

 

-

 

“Shut out!” Tom yells, and throws himself into the flood of his boys.

Holts is grinning, wide and bright. His hair is soaked from his dumb water bottle, and the water is mixed with sweat, dripping down his temple, down his neck. He's so hot. Tom jumps on him.

“Holtbeast!” Tom hollers, right in Holts’ ear. “I know you did it for me, to save me from the fucking cannon! That thing definitely woulda’ made me regress.”

Holts arms come up around Tom's back, press firm to his spine, before patting to make it look properly bro-y. Tom steps back and beams at him.

“Stop flirting, Willy, we gotta get clean and then do interviews and then go celebrate,” Conno says, grabbing Tom's arm.

Tom flushes, scoots back, tries to protest. “Hey, no - I wasn't, I mean, uh-”

“You're a shit liar,” Conno tells him.

Holts is watching from over Conno's shoulder, eyes sharp and gone a little heated.

“Right,” Tom says, and keeps eye contact with Holts as he's dragged away.

Tom waits in a back hall for the guys to finish, safely out of the way of any media scrums, determinedly fucking around on his phone and not thinking about anything.

They go out to a bar, which Tom does his best to enjoy. It *is* fun, honestly, great to see the team riding high, pumped over downing a division rival. And in a fucking whitewash.

He’s so wrapped up in anticipation though, and he’s not drinking because the trainers told him not to - he listens most of the time, at least when it comes to his ability to be able to play hockey - so it feels like he’s gonna vibrate right out of his skin. He keeps catching Holts’ gaze from a table away, and every time he does his stomach turns over.

“You’re not sneaky,” Devo tells him, after maybe the fifth time Tom's broken eye contact.

“Suck my dick, Smith-Pelly.”

Devo starts cackling before he can even get any words out in response - he just gestures towards Holts a few times - and yeah, Tom set himself up for that. He drains the rest of his water, smacks the glass down on the table, and leaves.

Devo gives him a thumbs up through his laughing fit.

He can feel Holts’ eyes on him all the way to the door.

Tom gets back to the room and tries not to feel like he's waiting. He has the TV on as a distraction, and tries to pay attention to the episode of Friends that's on rather than the door, but the second he hears the hallway floor creak he's on his feet and halfway across the room. He makes himself stop there, and then sort of gives himself an all-over shake. He goes and get tap water from the bathroom, and after he's drained the glass he pokes his head back into the room.

“Hey Holts,” he says.

“Hey Whip,” Holts replies, and finishes tucking his shoes away before crossing the room, stepping right into Tom's space. He grins, and Tom wants to brush his thumb over the line of his eyebrow.

“Still not weird, right?” Tom asks.

“Not weird,” Holts says, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> (tom wilson is a switch send tweet)


End file.
